


Like a Black and White Film

by mrsronweasley



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:59:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsronweasley/pseuds/mrsronweasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Harry comes back to Nick, it's raining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Black and White Film

**Author's Note:**

> With HUGE thanks to Brooklinegirl for her brutal and terrible beta that's definitely made this so much better than it could have been, to Soupytwist for her lightning-fast Brit-pick, and to Sunsetmog and Mistresscurvy for their encouragements and enabling, as well. YOU'RE ALL THE BEST. The remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This was meant to be a light and fluffy PWP. Haha, sob, etc. This is actually no longer ~canon compliant, timing and other things-wise, but really, what is ~canon but a fleeting impression of pap and twitter pictures amirite, eh eh eh? Anyway. Onwards!

The day Harry comes back to Nick, it's raining. Sheets and sheets of it pounding the pavements, battering Nick's petunias out in the garden. It's picturesque, if depressing – he'd been sort of considering taking Harry out on a picnic in the park as a welcome back sort of thing. 

Now, instead of packing a basket and deciding which wine goes best with grass stains, he and Puppy are sat on the sofa, watching Secret Dealers on ITV. He wonders what “eclectic” means to some people, because to him the lamp being reverently bid on by Alison Chapman looks like a proper heap of ornate rubbish, but that’s probably why he’s not an antiques dealer, he supposes. 

Anyway, maybe he’s missed the actual importance of the rubbish lamp because his attention is split in two, like tiny little pieces of ornate rubbish of his own. He's been tracking Harry's flight, and knows that Harry could be here any minute.

Considering the rain and the traffic, though, it's not fucking likely. 

Doesn't mean he doesn't jump at every slam of a car door, obviously. Even Puppy is side-eyeing him from her curl-up on what's become known as Harry's side of the sofa. The Harry Cushion, if you will.

Nick rolls his eyes at himself for that one. Really, it could be anyone's cushion – Aimee's arse has graced it enough, as has Ian's, and Pix tends to basically move in with Nick every other week, because she likes his garden and spends most sunny days out there, lounged like a cat. 

He's got strange friends, now he thinks about it. 

His phone buzzes and he nearly flings himself off the sofa attempting to reach it. Puppy gives an unhappy huff at him. Great, even his dog is tired of this waiting.

_Hiiiii. Off the plane see you in a bit xxx_

"What, just now?" Nick says out loud and throws up his hands. He's literally going to die waiting. This is pathetic.

This calls for tea, at the very least, and Nick gets his arse up off the sofa and is just about to step through to the kitchen when his door bells goes.

He freezes in place, exchanging a look with Puppy. "Oh, please don't be someone who's just here for a chat," he pleads. He considers yelling out, _I'm not here!_ but then decides to man up and shoo the interloper away in a slightly more upfront fashion.

"I can't be bothered with you right now," he shouts as he unlocks and swings open the door, and then the rest of his speech dies out on his tongue, because of course. It's Harry.

"You little tosser," Nick breathes before he can come up with something slightly more welcoming, but it doesn't even matter, because Harry beams at him, chewing gum and all, and kicks his luggage through, nearly knocking over Puppy, who'd obviously run up to the door in yet another fruitless bid to escape and make Nick's life more difficult. 

"Sorry," Harry shrugs as he boots the door shut and kneels down to pet a slightly startled Puppy. "Sorry, Pups, didn't see you there." Nick watches as she barks, then lightly nips at Harry's wrists and gets irrationally jealous that he's not the first one to have done that. "She's so cute," Harry says, giggling down at her.

Nick just says, "Well."

Harry straightens up, still grinning, and immediately backs Nick up against the wall, hips and shoulders crowding him right up. 

Jesus, he knew that Harry spent half his time in America working out like a mental person, but in the months they've been apart, he hasn't quite expected Harry's shoulders to broaden like that, or for him to gain another inch in height – is that even possible at this point? Is it the boots?

"Are you taller?" he asks, sounding a right idiot, even as Harry's hands go straight to Nick's hips to press them forward. Then he blinks and realises that's not the question he should have asked at all.

"Maybe," Harry shrugs, his face a mere inch away from Nick's. His gaze flicks over Nick's mouth, and Nick clears his throat.

"You are not getting anywhere near my mouth with old gum in yours," he tells him.

Harry's grin is fast, and Nick is slow. He blinks and the next moment Harry's biting at the juncture of his neck, his hair tickling Nick's face, smelling faintly of sweat and rain and stale plane air.

"You're a pain in my arse," Nick complains at the same time as his skin breaks out in goose bumps, because God, he's missed Harry. He's missed his scent, the feel of him right there, pressed up against Nick, his twitchy legs trapping Nick's thighs between them, his hands roaming all down Nick's back, rucking up his shirt and messing with his brain. 

He thought he was prepared for seeing Harry again after endless months apart, but in the here and now, it's a laughable thought. Skype and texts and trolling tumblr for up-to-date Harry Styles pictures and the occasional gif could not prepare him for the reality of Harry crowded up against him, large as life. 

It feels amazing, and it makes him stroppy at the same time. It's been so fucking long, and Harry's just not letting him _breathe_. He blinks, wondering when this had even become an issue, and then it hits him, and then he really, _really_ can't breathe at all. 

"Harry – Hazza, wait, wait – stop –"

Why is he doing that? Even as Nick is pushing Harry away (and realising that no, he isn't taller, he's just an overwhelming octopus of a boy) he's questioning his own sanity, but. _But._

"Stop? Are you sure?" Harry asks slowly, and he's still playful, uncomplicatedly happy, grinning at Nick, still chewing his disgusting gum and seeking more and more of Nick's skin with quick fingers under Nick's shirt. But the next moment, something in Nick's expression must change, because Harry's grin drops and he frowns, fingers stilling just on the edge of Nick's jeans. "Nick?"

Harry's face is a bit of a rollercoaster of confusion and hurt, and Nick huffs and pulls him back in, this time going for a hug instead of a grope. "Come here," he says, even as he's got Harry plastered up against himself, uncertain hands winding back around his waist. 

God, they haven't even kissed yet, and since when does Nick let a little something like hours-old chewing gum get in the way of Harry's tongue in his mouth?

Nick rests his chin on top of Harry's shoulder, feeling Harry's breath on his neck, and sighs. Fuck. "Sorry, just – " He doesn't know what to say. Puppy's running half-circles around them, clickety-click on his floors, and he thinks this may be better done not in the transient space of his corridor. 

"Is – are you all right?" Harry asks, his voice low, sort of heavy in Nick's ear. 

"I am," he says automatically, then tugs Harry away just enough that he can look him in the eye. Once he does, he's helpless not to smile at the crinkle between his brows, the bullish expression on his face. The way Harry's lower lip puffs out when he's upset or worried is childishly charming, even now, on a face that's lost the childhood, that's fully adult now. Tanned, too, his eyes brighter with it. 

Nick's belly flops a bit. _Oh_ , he thinks stupidly.

"Come on," he says and nods toward the rest of the flat. Harry's hand has found its way into Nick's, and their palms sweat against each other whilst they make their way to the sofa. Nick settles onto his own cushion and Harry lets go of his hand long enough to plonk his arse down next to him. He grabs Nick's hand in his again and, after kicking off his boots and slipping his socks off, rests his legs on the coffee trunk. He can be a considerate one when he chooses to be. Nick grabs for the remote and turns the telly off, the silence all-encompassing, apart from the rain.

It's actually dark out, even though it's the middle of the day. It's like it's not even London but the middle of a bloody Bronte novel on the moors or something.

The way Harry's holding onto his hand makes Nick's heart do a wobble. As weird as Nick knows he's acting, it'll take a lot more weird to put off Harry Styles. 

"So, what's up?" Harry asks, because if there's one thing he can't abide, it's confused feelings. Harry will ferret out what ails you with a bullheaded stubbornness previously unknown to man.

Trouble is, Nick's not sure how to articulate himself right at the moment, but he's well in it now. He's put off what would have been a lovely shag for a series of odd tics and now he's laid out on the sofa, awkwardly clutching Harry's hand, and feeling just a slightly more sane version of Heathcliff. At least he's not actually beating his head against the wall – that's progress for you. Puppy's watching them both balefully from the other sofa and probably judging the crap out of Nick for being a right berk. 

He gives a great gust of a sigh and pulls on Harry's hand until Harry 'oof's and lands right on Nick's stomach, settling against him immediately, like it's all fine.

Oh, what the hell. Nick runs a hand through Harry's hair. It's slightly greasy from travel, and he pictures all the steps Harry had to take to get to the exact spot he's in now – driven to the airport, then escorted through security under cover of a billion bulky blokes who'll eat you for breakfast if you look at them wrong, Harry small and awkward between them. Then, a wait in a private lounge of some sort, where he'd texted Nick his flight info, with a _by the way, coming back now_ sort of handwave, then he probably got a little pissed. Maybe not, though – America's laws on drinking ages being what they are. The flight was long and probably boring. Nick hates flying. He wonders if Harry had a kip or if he's been conscious the whole entire time.

"Think I've missed you," he says now, in a sort of misfired understatement Aimee might call _the least and most Grimshaw moment_. She hoards those moments and then chucks them all at Nick in her birthday and Christmas cards. He's got years worth of lists now, like a mental person who doesn't know how to get better. 

"Oh." Harry's face clears and dimples appear right on cue. The smile that's charmed the pants off the whole entire world. Fucking hell, who could resist _that_? Proper Helen of Troy, right here in Nick's arms. It's probably wrong, but he can't help getting a bit hard at that thought, if he's honest with himself. And with his dick. "Why're you all weird, then?" Harry pokes Nick's toes with his own. It's a gross feeling and Nick automatically kicks out. 

"Ugh, I don't know," he lies and clicks his tongue, but doesn't move his foot now that it's nicely settled next to Harry's. Then he says, "You're just all, I don't know, whatever. Like, changed and stuff." 

"Changed?" Harry asks. "Changed how?" There's a twinkle hiding in the corner of his eyes, though, and Nick rolls his eyes.

"Well, for one, you're more gorgeous than before," he says, admitting the easiest part. Harry's grin just widens, his mouth doing that pleased Harry thing it does. It's distracting, so Nick covers it with his hand before continuing. Harry's eyes pick up the grin, though, and he really is the worst thing to _ever_ happen to Nick. He squeezes Harry's legs between his own, sort of meanly, but really, just to feel him, _really_ feel him, the hard muscles of their thighs crushed together, their bones and skin in the same space for once, the same room, country, Nick's sofa. 

"And you're a bit more grown up," Nick says, and swallows around the sudden frog in his throat. Harry blinks at him, then rolls his eyes. "No, wait," Nick says, still not letting him move. He licks his lips, trying to gather his thoughts. His lips are dry. He can't remember where he'd chucked the lip stuff after last winter, he'll have to buy a whole new tube, just like he does every year, and then find three old tubes of the stuff in his various jackets and bags. It's a vicious cycle of tiny forgettable but necessary things.

 _Fuck._ He's so fucked.

Nick throws his head back, not releasing his hold on Harry's terrible mouth, and talks to the ceiling, instead. "You're outgrowing me," he says. There. Harry shows signs of protesting, but Nick clamps his hand harder on his mouth and skids his gaze back to Harry's mutinous one before averting it again. "Or you will. You know I'm right, Harold, even if only because I'm older and, therefore, wiser." Which is the biggest load of bollocks, obviously, but.

He's known this ever since he first met Harry, years ago now, when Harry had looked at him like he'd hung the moon. He knew it as he tracked Harry's progress across the world through several tours. This nameless thing they have – nobody can take away from them because it barely exists outside of a whispered talk they had one night, sometime after the _first_ time ( _come back to me, and I'll take you back gladly; if you don't want it, please don't stop being my friend_ ). Nobody but them. And Harry is young, and still changing, and Nick is smart enough to know to let him go. And selfish enough to try to hold on.

When Nick finally brings himself to look Harry in the eye, he catches his bright gaze only for a moment before Harry brings up one large hand and pushes Nick's out of the way and squeezes it until their bones grind together. His mouth's twisted a bit, gone white. 

"Harry –" Nick tries for a placating tone, uncertain as to who's the beneficiary of the placating.

"Shut up." Harry's voice is lower than usual, and snappier, too. 

Nick feels his own face reacting to it, crumpling, because fuck, what has he done? They could have been shagging their brains out right at this point, him pinning Harry to the bed, Harry whining beneath him, but now he's the one pinned down. 

"What are you even on about, outgrowing you?" Harry asks, and he sounds sort of wretched. "Hmm? What're you _saying_?"

Oh, God, what _is_ he saying? Is Nick honestly trying to break up with Harry – Harry _Styles_ – on his first day back, within ten minutes of seeing him? Is this why Aimee likes to tell him that he'll be forever alone if he doesn't stop being himself? This moment, right here, when he's managed to steer an _I've missed you_ reunion conversation to _I think we need to stop seeing each other because it turns out I love you too fucking much for you to leave me first_?

Probably.

"I just," he begins, then stops. Fuck. What? "I –"

"What? What, Nick, what the fuck?" Harry's still got a vice grip on Nick's hand, but he manages to push up and disentangle himself away from Nick enough to straddle him, arse right over Nick's bloody dick (limp now, at least, thanks to the least boner-inducing conversation of his life, including the one where he had to tell his elderly parents he was into cock, actually). Nick's shirt's ridden up, and his pits are sweaty. The rain outlines Harry's hunched figure behind them like it's a bloody film. His garden'll be destroyed again, he just knows it. And he hates films.

"Fuck, I dunno, do I, I'm just –" Talking crap, he wants to say, but he can't, because he's _not_. You can't hold onto something like this, you just can't. At least Nick can't. Harry'll slip away sooner or later. He thinks, _fuck it_ , because he's in it proper now, and maybe he's bollocking everything up, but at least he won't leave it with any regrets about what he did and didn't say. "I'm basically in love with you, all right?" he manages, intent on the outline of Harry's knee next to his ribs. His voice betrays him in the middle and the _you_ comes out, like, a register too low and a little broken. His entire face floods, he's hot all over, and he can't bear to look Harry in the eye, so he keeps watching his knee.

Harry's weight shifts a bit on top of him, their hands still clasped, and then Harry's free hand grabs Nick's chin and tilts it up, hard. "You're what," he says in a devastating sort of quiet voice that manages to go to Nick's heart and dick simultaneously. He wants to die. 

Harry's watching him so intently, it's like he's trying to burn a hole through Nick. Nick manages a noise between an "ugh" and "tchah," because he is nothing if not smooth, and screws up his face. He gets Aimee's words stuck in his head on a loop, _forever alone_ , because he is the biggest loser on the planet.

"You bloody heard me," he finally says and meets Harry's gaze. Harry's still got hold of Nick's chin, and every single one of their points of contact is damp and hot. It's reaching unbearable levels by the time Harry licks his lips, eyebrows drawn, and clears his throat.

"So why are you breaking up with me? I mean – you are, right? You're breaking up with me?" 

"Harry –"

"Shut up." 

Nick shuts up. 

"I'm literally straight off the plane," Harry says, and there's definitely no smile to his eyes now. The malleability's gone right out of his body, he's rigid, solid and hard. "I'm exhausted, right, and I really, _desperately_ wanted a shag, and you're breaking up with me? Are you fucking serious right now?" 

Nick's desire to die and be dead does not decrease. He is an arsehole. He knows he's an arsehole, and it's entirely possible that he had not intended to start a break-up speech until he opened his mouth and one spilled out, but what the fuck now? He's got no brakes on the speeding wreck of a train that is his life, apparently, and maybe he'd have a better idea of what to do here if he'd watched those Bond films Finchy's almost banging on about, but he's only seen a handful and none of them are helping in any way right now.

"Nick, Jesus fucking Christ, say something, will you?" Harry's voice's gone the sort of hoarse where you're on the edge of tears. Nick hates himself. "What's going on in your head? Fuck."

"Bond films," he says immediately and immediately wants to slap himself in the face. Harry looks at him like he's mental, which – point Styles. "I mean – I can't – I don't know what I'm _doing_ , Harry," he says, his voice just this side of whinging and gives a great big sigh. "I think I've fucked up."

Harry's still sort of mutinous looking, and confused, but something quirks in his face, like he can't even help it. Nick watches him as he bites the inside of his cheek and releases Nick's chin just long enough to grab hold of Nick's hair and tug his head back. Nick's hips jump and he tries to swallow but he can't and he's so fucking far from where he thought he'd be, even half an hour ago, he might as well be on Mars. He also gets fully hard in a second flat, and it's obvious both to him and to Harry.

"You're a fucking arsehole," Harry informs him and squeezes his hand until Nick's scalp stings and his eyes water, and then he leans down and licks a stripe right over Nick's throat before leaning up and kissing Nick's jaw. What the fuck. "You are _such_ an arsehole," Harry repeats, this time his words reverberating right against Nick's skin and he makes a noise without meaning to. Fucking hell.

"Harry –"

"Shut up," Harry commands again, this time in his lazy voice and then his free hand is tugging at the button on Nick's shorts. 

Nick can only gulp in air as Harry viciously tugs down his flies and wraps his fingers around Nick's hard-on over his pants. "You aren't allowed to talk right now, you ruin things when you talk," Harry informs him, and Nick really badly wants to point out the way in which he makes his successful living, but his heart's beating so loud, he doesn't think Harry'll much hear his voice. Besides, Harry isn't exactly wrong about that, anyway.

He moans a wordless question, instead, clutching at Harry's back, his fingers working Harry's shirt into damp bunches. He wants to rip at it, tear it into pieces, in fact. He's so bloody tired of seeing it in pictures of far-away places, he may just ruin it and keep it in his home forever. Let Harry find another shirt to leave Nick in. 

"Shut up," Harry repeats and bites down on the crook of Nick's shoulder.

Nick's voice echoes desperately in his own ears. Harry manages to burrow his hand under his Nick's pants and Nick gets the quick shock of the cold metal of Harry's ridiculous watch biting into the skin of his belly before Harry's fingers wrap around his cock and start to wank him off. His rings are cold, too, and it's quick and rough and fucking _unfair_ , because Nick desperately wants to flip them over and get his own back, but Harry's fucking strong, stronger than he's ever been. He bears down on Nick with his whole body, holding himself up just enough to give himself room to work, but no room at all for Nick to breathe. 

He can't breathe and he can't do anything but take the pleasure and the pain of it, Harry's dick pressed up against his thigh, out of Nick's reach. He's twenty-nine years old and he can't even make himself push Harry off or stave off his orgasm for much longer. He's just – he's got no idea where Harry's got this sudden strength from. Harry's always been this side of floppy, regardless of muscle mass. Right now, he's completely rigid and tense and he smells like sweat and just the smallest bit of aftershave, lost somewhere in the stale air of the plane and the vague smokiness of the taxi. 

As Nick unsuccessfully fights for control over his own body, he thinks that Harry might be scaring him. It's like he's already become a different person from the one he'd been when he left, and Nick doesn't know him like this. He wants to, though. Desperately.

Harry sits up just far enough to get at Nick's mouth and, just like that, Nick comes with Harry's tongue in his mouth and his teeth sharp on his lips and Harry's old gum trapped between them. Nick shudders and trembles and doesn't say a word. He kisses Harry back, not caring about how much it hurts, not caring about his legs falling asleep beneath Harry's weight, not caring about his hands going numb clutched around Harry's back. 

Harry's mouth hasn't changed, but his kisses have. He's cross, and he's kissing like he's trying to have a full-on row with Nick's tongue. Nick's been liquefied into basically nothing, but his mouth responds to Harry's kiss for kiss. Breath for breath. He whimpers against him and wonders what it is that they're fighting for. 

He's almost forgotten about the stinging pressure of Harry's fist in his hair until he's released. Pins and needles, he's all bloody pins and needles. Harry breaks off his kiss and raises himself up, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other sliding away from Nick's cock, come smeared on his palm, then his jeans. 

Nick, sort of wrecked on the sofa, can only watch as Harry pins him with a gaze from under his brows. His lips are bruised-looking, his eyes are blown. He's hard inside his jeans, huge and obvious, and Nick's mouth waters for him, waters for _all_ of him, and he's so fucked. He knows. 

He isn't hard, but as he skitters his gaze across Harry's body in the silence of his flat, a silence punctuated with just their breathing (Puppy must have hid in his bathroom again. Smart dog), his body begins to want again. He wants to bite at Harry's wrists, lick under his watch. He wants to smear his own come off of Harry's massive palm, wants to lick up his veins. He wants to reach out and grab Harry's cross necklace and tug on the Star of David until the whole thing gives. He wants to take it all back, wants to undo the last hour of his life, wants to open his door once more and just say _hello_.

Instead, he stays pinned beneath Harry and doesn't say a word. Somehow, he knows he's got to wait him out. Harry never says anything until he's bloody good and ready. 

"You thought you'd break it off with me before it got really hard, right?" 

Nick wants to argue that the last eight months have been hard enough, thank you, but instead he grits his teeth and waits a little more. 

"Right?" 

Nick clears his throat and licks his lips. "I didn't –" He breaks off and finally turns away from Harry, staring at the wall near the garden window, where the rain's still tap-tap-tapping against the glass. "I didn't want to make it harder. I think." But he suspects that Harry actually might.

"You love me," Harry says and Nick nearly flinches at that, because it sounds like an accusation, not a declaration. 

A hard finger stabs him in the chest and Nick forces himself to look back at Harry's face. His lower lip's puffed out, hurt.

"I do, but – it doesn't _change_ anything," he tries, because it doesn't. It's his problem to deal with, _not_ Harry's. It doesn't make Harry any less nineteen, or any less a popstar, or any less the person he is coming to be. God, _that_ , that right there is what's making his chest seize up and his stomach queasy.

"Nick, Jesus Christ," Harry says, his voice unsteady now. "How thick are you?" 

This time when Harry stabs him with the finger in the same spot, it bloody hurts. Nick flinches and feels his jaw moving. He's close to having a proper strop, all whilst having his limp dick out of his pants and Harry straddling him with a hard-on. 

Then Harry says, "I. Love. You. Back," and the full stops are nearly visible. "Don't you fucking know? What the fuck do you think I'm doing here?"

Nick is twenty-nine years old, but that doesn't make him fucking immune. His first reaction to hearing Harry fucking Styles telling him he loves him is pleasure flooding his whole body. Pleasure, hope, joy, even, but it's _stupid_ because it still doesn't bloody change a thing, does it? Even with Harry straddling him and telling him he loves him, all Nick's got is the certainty that it will all end in sadness and despair and probably a whole lot of empty Jack and Cokes, at least for him. Possibly some tears in there somewhere, too. 

"Fuck's sake, say something," Harry says and his voice is even raspier and deeper than usual. He pokes Nick again, in the same spot, because he's in a band full of children who are masters of mischief, and he knows exactly what to do to be the most annoying person in the universe. Problem is, Nick's got no idea what to say or how to even move his lips. His limp dick's still out, he's covered in his own come, and he may be one year closer to thirty, but he can't remember ever feeling less adult than right now. 

"I don't," Nick starts, then clears his throat. "Harry," he tries again, but his throat betrays him again. _Fuck_. "Fuck."

"What, what, _what?_ " Harry asks, and his hands dig into Nick's ribs, huge and desperate. 

"What happens in a year? When you're gone, when you're –"

"The same fucking thing as now, innit?" Harry interrupts, and it's possible Nick detects the smallest of eyerolls in the emotions flitting over Harry's face. "What would change this?" He looks slightly less thunderous and more pleading, maybe, and maybe that's what uncoils the tension in Nick's chest.

"You don't hate not – seeing each other?" he asks carefully, and he isn't even sure what answer he wants to hear.

"God, of course I do," Harry says, and this time the eyeroll is quite massive. "But that's part and parcel, right? And we're seeing each other _now_."

Nick is so tired of fighting, himself and otherwise. Harry's quiet, slightly frantic words seep into his ears and undo him, bit by bit. Part and parcel, indeed. 

Fuck. _Fuck_ it.

He sits straight up and shoves Harry backwards, a series of awkward movements punctuated by Harry's surprised face. Nick traps him between his arms (which only _seem_ steady right now, because he's actually trembling all over) and grinds their hips together as he catches Harry's mouth in a kiss. It hurts, and it's amazing. Harry grabs him with every limb he's got, grabs him and opens right up for him, like Nick moving snapped all of Harry's own strings. His mouth tastes like sex, and his body _feels_ like sex, despite being one hundred percent clothed. With a certain savagery, Nick bears down and knows he's smeared the mess on his belly all over Harry's jeans. His own dick starts to wake up again, which is a miracle of being in close proximity to a teenage boy, he supposes. 

God, Harry doesn't feel like a teenage boy, though. Not anymore. His body's more solid than the last time Nick found himself in this position, it's bigger. Harry really is just no longer a kid, in any way, and the relief of it nearly undoes him. 

Nick's always felt a certain degree of protectiveness towards him, and who wouldn't really. Harry's a big sponge underneath it all, he soaks up people's kindnesses and gives them all right back, but he soaks up the bad stuff, too, and keeps that to himself, doesn't let it come out. Nick's never wanted to be anything but kind to him since the moment they met. 

Now, though. Now he wants to ruin him, just a little, just to get his point across. 

God, he's lost the plot, hasn't he. He doesn’t care. Harry's clinging to him so hard and so tight and he bites Nick's lips and buries his tongue in Nick's mouth and whimpers against him.

"Come to bed with me," Nick manages to say when he tears his mouth away. "This is so fucking stupid, just come to bed with me." Nothing's changed, but fuck it. _Fuck_ it.

"Fuck, yes," Harry pants, hot breath puffing between them. The next moment, they somehow manage to untangle themselves enough to stand up (not without some accidental knees to stomachs and hair-pulling situations) and fight their way through the hurdles of cushions Nick had somehow managed to create whilst waiting for Harry. Predictably, Harry nearly brains himself on the coffee trunk, and Nick almost goes down right after, but then they're stumbling down the hall and into his bedroom. 

Harry grabs his hand and pulls, hard. Nick is just grateful that the bed is right there, because that could have ended badly. 

Instead, it ends with him falling on top of Harry, brain cells basically leaking from his ears, until he's nothing but fucking – pounding desire and love. Which is so cheesy, but God, he can't think of anything else but how much he's missed him, and that Harry loves him. Maybe he should question it more, really, but he doesn't, because Harry is with him, nudging Nick's face into a proper kissing position, and his hands have got less vicious, as have his eyes.

There's a click-clackety noise and Nick breaks off long enough to command Puppy out of the room. She gives a huff and parks her arse right there in front of the bed. Nick considers letting her be traumatised, just so she learns her lesson, but then a certain incident involving canines and accidental privates-licking swims into his memory and he gives Harry a quick look before scrambling off the bed and, indignity firmly intact, picks her up and ferries her out of the room, shutting the door on her when she tries to run back in. 

Then he catches sight of Harry on the bed. His shirt has ridden halfway up his torso, knees splayed apart, bony feet curling against the duvet. He's flushed, which just makes the tan stand out even more, and his hair's a proper rat's nest. His eyes are blown. He's watching Nick steadily, the only unsteady thing about him is his chest, moving rapidly up and down, up and down. Nick thinks he can almost see the swallows peeking out from the collar of his t-shirt flutter. 

"This is weird," Nick says before he can filter himself.

Harry runs a hand up his torso, rucking the shirt up until the butterfly's on full display and asks, "Weird how?" 

Like reacting to Nick's inanities is just part of his job and totally normal and un-mental-like. His skin's got a sweaty sheen to it. 

Nick rubs his face with one hand. "I've just been an idiot," he says, attempting to encapsulate the past hour in a succinct fashion. 

Harry doesn't laugh the way Nick expects him to, though. Instead, he reaches out one hand and says, "C'mere," in the most serious tone he's capable of. It's slow and hoarse and Nick is incapable of resisting this. He has no idea, in fact, of who could ever, _ever_ resist this.

He strips off his t-shirt, then kicks his jeans down the rest of the way, steps out of them and his pants, leaves them puddled on the floor. It looks like he's dissolved on the spot, which isn't actually all that inaccurate. 

Harry strips off, too. Nick had thought he'd be the one to do that part of it, reveal him bit by bit, but nothing's gone the way he'd thought it would today. So here Harry is, fighting his way out of his t-shirt, his ridiculous six-pack shifting in the dim light of the bedroom, then wriggling out of his jeans and underwear until he's panting, laid out on Nick's bed, watching Nick. 

He's gorgeous. He's always been gorgeous, god. Even when he came out on the X-Factor stage in the ponciest scarf imaginable and impressed the pants off Simon bloody Cowell, he was gorgeous. Now, he is incandescent. Hard and tanned, every muscle defined under the soft skin. The inked butterfly seems to pull at Nick until he's on the bed over Harry, and then his mouth is on it, kissing each wingtip in turn. It should be the stupidest tattoo in the world, but it's Harry, so it's not. It makes perfect sense on him, nestled beneath his chest, under where his heart beats. Harry gives a shiver at Nick's touch and Nick shuts his eyes and finds Harry's hands with his own in the dark. He's not said a thing to Nick about the cross on his hand, but Nick's noticed. 

"Hi," Harry says above him, and then again, quietly, "Hello."

Nick bites his own lip. He wants to do everything he can to Harry, and for a moment, the possibilities fluster him. In the end, he wraps his hands around Harry's hips, feeling the flex of them as Harry squirms beneath him, and sucks down his dick. 

Harry gives a long, low groan.

God, Nick's missed his dick, missed the way it fills up his mouth until he feels like it can't stretch anymore. It floods his mouth with that Harry taste, the musky guy taste.

Something's different, and Nick can't quite pinpoint what it is until he goes even further down, his nose rubbing against Harry's belly, and then realises he's encountering only smooth skin, no treasure trail. God, _there's_ a talking point, but for now he takes a deep breath in and runs his tongue all the way back up Harry's cock before slipping off. 

He's usually pretty good about the steady blowjob, but he doesn't want that now. He wants to lick him all over, wants to play with the head, do all manner of filthy things with his tongue and Harry's dick that Harry will let him get away with. He slides further down the bed and settles in between Harry's thighs, reveling in the way they rub against his shoulders, the hard weight of them. Then he leans back in and runs his mouth down one side of Harry's dick, fluttering his tongue against the shaft, and soaks up every hitch in breath that escapes Harry's mouth. God, Nick wishes he could be everywhere at once – watching Harry's face when he's lost in sex, blowing him, running his hands all over Harry's body, fucking him, _getting_ fucked by him. He'd need so many more hours in the day to do all the things he wants to do now, and he knows he barely has twelve – Harry's only here on a short visit. 

Nick will take what he can get, though, and lets his mouth do all the talking for him, as always. He licks at Harry, sucks him down, slides his tongue against the head, pulls at the foreskin – and the whole time, Harry's gasping beneath him, high-pitched and breathy, so fucking hot. Every now and then, a _God_ or _fuck_ escapes. Nick soaks it in, all of it, records it in his brain, gets hard to it.

He pulls off long enough to slide down with his face between Harry's thighs, and parts him, tongues at his arsehole. Harry bucks, cries out. He smells so good, so strong and _Harry_. Nick burrows further in, gets into it until Harry's dripping with Nick's spit, shuddering and rutting against his face, hands grabbing at Nick's shoulders but they shake so hard, he never actually manages to grab hold of Nick. Nick feels like he's losing his mind, just a little bit, overdosing on Harry's scent and taste. The next thing he knows, he's got his mouth back on Harry's dick and a single finger slipped inside him, stroking in and out. 

Harry falls apart beneath him. Nick's tongue is aching and his mouth's rubbed raw, but it feels like no time at all until Harry grabs his head and whines, low in his chest, breath stuttering out. Without warning, only the telltale run of pressure under his skin that Nick feels against his tongue, Harry comes. He floods Nick's mouth with it, spurts and spurts of it, enough that Nick nearly does choke but he doesn't care, because Harry's spasming around his finger, and crying out above him, and trembling so hard, Nick trembles with him. 

When Nick finally pulls out and off him, Harry lets out a sob, small but fucking gorgeous. Then his hands – strong now, despite their shaking – pull Nick up until they're face to face and he's devouring Nick in a kiss. His grip switches from Nick's shoulders to Nick's jaw, holding him down for the kiss as if he would ever escape. Both their tongues taste of Harry. Nick feels drunk on it, thinks if the ridiculous One Direction perfume smelled the way Harry tasted, he would buy out the entire stock and soak his sheets with it. 

"Fuck, fuck, _Nick_ ," Harry whines once he breaks off the kiss, and Nick's entire body shudders at the way his name sounds on Harry's lips, needy and reverent. It's dangerous, addictive. Nick doesn't care anymore. He's past addicted.

"Harry," he says in response and kisses him again. He isn't sure either of them even breathes for a long moment. 

"You're hard," Harry says the next time they break off, and Nick would lie, if his dick wasn't busy smearing precome against Harry's hip. "You should – you should come, I want to make you come," Harry mumbles. 

"You already did," Nick points out, and he doesn't mean for it to sound flippant, but he catches Harry's frown.

"Properly. I was – this is different." He was angry, he means. Nick is nodding in agreement before he even makes a decision. "D'you – d'you wanna fuck me? I've not – I've missed getting fucked," Harry breathes against him, his hands still trapping Nick's face in place. 

Fucking hell. Nick is actually not all that sure he's got the coordination to make fucking happen, but the offer makes his ears ring, and there's no choice, really. 

He _had_ been prepared, just in case, and had unearthed the condoms and lube from under his bedside table rubble before Harry's arrival. He thanks past-Nick now as they fumble out a condom and he slides it down his dick, slowly, methodically, attempting not to blow it right then and there. Harry's fingers tangle with his and Nick has to pause and let Harry finish the job, because he just needs to breathe, just for a moment, because things have happened fast. He's dizzy with it all.

He fucks Harry slow, as slow as his body can manage. He buries his face in the crook of his neck, and his chest feels too huge to contain him at the way Harry's wound his arms around Nick's back. They're both breathing hard and uneven, and Harry's groans echo Nick's own. It's all he can do not to fall apart right in this moment, Harry's arse gripped beneath his hand. The room has stilled around them. He can't even hear the rain anymore. All he knows is Harry, under him and around him, hard once more, and the soft clinks of their necklaces catching against each other. 

"You're an arsehole," Harry breathes into his ear, and it sounds so different from before. Nick tries to laugh but makes a choked noise, instead, and then Harry's breath flutters against his jaw. "I love you so much, fuck."

Nick does laugh then, all of him released with it, and he catches Harry's mouth with his own the next moment, and comes with Harry's tongue once more trapped in his mouth. As he shudders and groans, pleasure flooding every single part of him, from skin to bone, he thinks idly that Harry must have chucked the gum somewhere because it's just them, just like this, shuddering against each other.

Harry wanks himself off after Nick pulls out. Nick peppers Harry's chest with kisses, runs his fingers up and down his endless legs, and holds on as Harry comes, tossing his head back, coming almost dry, with a sound like pain. For a moment, Nick wonders if he can manage to keep Harry right where he is for the next forever, messed up, between Nick's sheets. 

For a while, they lie in silence, Nick's head on Harry's chest, Harry's arm thrown over his back. Nick feels like a rag – boneless and dirty and wrung out. His heart is still beating hard inside his chest, and Harry's is drumming against his ear in syncopation. 

"I'm sorry," Nick says without thinking. He bites his lip. 

"Don't," Harry says after a while. He's drawing circles on Nick's skin. "I've – I've felt fucked up, too, you know? We're – this isn't easy."

"Yeah." It isn't. Now that they've fucked and said _I love you_ , Nick's got no clue what's going to happen next. They'd never talked about it, really. This feels like some next levels stuff to Nick, but what if it isn't. What if it falls apart. 

"I don't – I don't want to lose this," Harry says later. His voice is so low. Nick's heart stutters for a second. "You, I mean."

"Me neither," Nick admits. His heartbeat's so loud in his ears. "I'll be here." Because he might as well just come out with it. He's sad and pathetic and he's willing to wait. He's willing to get called out on his "bromance" with Harry Styles and endure endless jabs by the press, he's ready for all of it, because at the end of the day, no one gets _them_. And, at the end of the day – or six months; or a year - he gets Harry, like this. And that's got to be worth waiting for, hasn't it?

"I'm sorry," Harry says, and Nick's heart flops. 

He lifts himself up and looks Harry in the face. " _You're_ sorry? What for?"

"Making you wait," Harry answers immediately, watching him steadily. "All the bullshit, all the – crap. You know, like the GQ thing." Nick watches as Harry takes a deep breath, then lets it out. He's stroking Nick's hair where it's fallen over his forehead. "I hate it. I'm sorry."

Nick's sorry, too. He doesn't care that Harry can't come out right now – he'd never make him. He knows. It just isn't smart, isn't _right_ , for the moment. But he has never really been in the closet, and can't imagine that life. Nobody gives a toss who he's shagging, unless it's Harry. He doesn't know what to say, and Harry's eyebrows are growing closer and closer together. 

Nick reaches inside his brain for something, anything to say that would lighten the mood, but the only thing he can come up with is, "You're worth it." It's cheesy and trite and like hearing nails on a chalkboard, but it's also the truth, and Nick thinks that if they can't say the truth in his bedroom, they can't say the truth anywhere. This is a no-closet sort of room. 

"Nick –" Harry's face begins to crumple.

"Hazza," Nick interrupts. "Shut up." Harry pinches his mouth closed. "We're all right. We're…" He feels like he's teetering on a half-moon, unsteady, but still able to balance a little. Like when he'd first got the hang of riding a bike. "We'll be all right." He thinks he might actually believe it, for once. "You want to keep seeing me, right?"

Harry's face goes through a complicated string of emotions. "'Course," he says finally. 

"Well, there you have it, then," Nick says, attempting to making his voice sound hearty and stupid, because there's been way too much fucking emotion already and he's reaching a saturation point. He desperately wants a drink. 

"It's not – it's not that easy, though, is it?" Harry persists. Fucking teenagers and their bursting emotions. Nick is so fond of him. It's ridiculous.

"No," he finally agrees and smoothes away the stubborn line between Harry's eyebrows with his thumb. "But it's probably a good start, right? A foundation, if you will." God, where did he get all these words, he wonders. Look at him sounding all mature and not freaked out in any way. 

Harry grabs his hand and kisses the tips of his fingers, then tangles his fingers with Nick's. "All right, fine. I guess." He gives Nick a slightly watery smile. "Should we get cleaned up?"

Nick wrinkles his face. "Probably. But I want a drink first. Beers in bed?"

"God, yes, _please_."

When Nick pads back into the room holding two Coronas, he has to chuck Puppy out again. He almost gives in at seeing her sad and adorable big-eyed face, but he'll make it up to her by taking her on an extra long walk and letting her destroy another pair of expensive trainers. Once he's closed the door and turned around, he stops in his tracks. Harry's wiping himself down with a flannel. The smug, satisfied look on his face is so familiar that Nick's knees nearly buckle. He's missed the little shit so much. 

"Got one for me?" he asks, setting the bottles down on the bedside table. 

"Fuck no, get it yourself," Harry grins and flicks the edge of the flannel against Nick's hip. It's a seriously gross feeling, and Nick retaliates by grabbing it off of him and using the moment to starfish the thing right over Harry's laughing face. The muffled hysterical laughter that Harry lets out the next moment is worth being a prick over, and Nick collapses on top of him, laughing whilst trying not to actually suffocate him. Harry fights dirty, even with his face covered by a gross flannel, and soon enough, Nick winds up with bruises and scratches, both wrists pinned above his head, Harry straddling him – again, for the millionth time. God, Nick could really get used to this view.

The only surprise, really, is that Harry manages to fling the flannel away without smacking Nick in the face with it. He's flushed and giggling and he's got his own come smeared across his cheek and he's gorgeous. Nick imagines that he himself must look like a scarecrow, but that doesn't appear to matter. Harry grins down at him and lowers his face until they're nose to nose.

"You're such a lemon," Harry informs him, then pecks him on the nose. His smile looks almost shy, which is adorably out of place, Nick thinks. 

"I am," he responds. "But you're the one with come on your face."

"I like to accessorise," Harry says and lets go of Nick's wrists as Nick giggles. The next moment, Harry swipes the come from his face and, before Nick can shift away, smears it all over Nick's mouth. Nick's put-upon sigh fights for dominance, but the giggle still wins out. 

"Delicious," he says, giving Harry a smug grin. "I need a chaser, I think."

Harry smirks and sits up. He grabs a Corona from the bedside table and takes a long and sumptuous pull. Nick should be complaining, held against his will by one of Harry's massive hands around his wrists, and being denied a beer of his own, but, well. He's too wiped out and giddy to fight anything anymore. He lets his body relax, and simply watches Harry's throat working. He downs a third of the bottle before he stops, which is impressive enough, and then makes a show of swallowing. He holds Nick's gaze the entire time.

He proceeds to lick his lips and extend his arm until he's tipping the bottle right against Nick's mouth. 

"Open up," he says, and Nick can't help but obey. Most of it winds up dribbling down his chin, but he doesn't care. Harry gives him a small grin, and his eyes are so wide and beautiful. Nick licks his own lips, chasing the light Corona taste, and settles further into the bed, still watching him. Harry rests the cold bottle right on his chest, and Nick shivers, doesn't attempt to hide anything. "You look good," Harry says. It's quite the non sequitur, but that's Harold for you. Nick flushes. 

"I bet you say that to all the boys," he says in an attempt to laugh it off.

Harry frowns, just for a second, then leans down. He's still got the bottle clutched in his hand right over Nick's chest, and now his elbow's digging into Nick's belly. "I'm serious, though," he says in a low voice. "You're all – I dunno, lean and tanned and stuff. Looks good."

Nick knows he's blushing, partly because he knows it's true. He's been doing pretty well on the taking care of his body front, and it's been nice, looking in the mirror and seeing himself like this. It's been nice to imagine Harry's reaction. It's nice to get to hear it now. 

"We're both a little changed, then," he says, and he doesn't mean for it to sound loaded, but this fucking day. It's been loaded all along. 

Harry leans in until he's a breath away and carefully moves the bottle so he's the one covering most of Nick's skin. His knees dig into Nick's sides, and it's strangely comforting, being pinned in by Harry Styles's thighs. "Stop thinking," Harry says and Nick shuts his eyes and does a mental checklist of all the things he may or may not be thinking right at this moment. He's largely drifting, actually, despite it being early evening and not anywhere near a respectable bedtime. Maybe they could have a kip and go out to dinner afterwards. Get a little pissed. Shag loads. Take Puppy out for a walk. 

Then his mind snags on a thought, and he says, "So what happened to the lovely Road to El-Dorado?"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"Your treasure trail, Harold," Nick replies sleepily. He knows he's smiling, but he's sort of losing the thread. "Now I'll never find my way."

Harry sniggers and buries his face in Nick's chest. It tickles. "I was in California, I dunno. Seemed like the thing to do." It's largely mumbled into Nick's skin.

"You're such a strange boy," Nick says and flops one arm over Harry's back, patting him.

"Go to sleep, Nicholas," Harry tells him.

"Mmm, okay," he agrees and leans up without looking, knowing Harry will meet him halfway. Their kiss is lazy and beery and tastes a lot like come, still. Always, really. He can feel Harry's smile even through the kiss. 

"Good," Harry whispers and Nick thinks that it's nice of Harry to kiss him like that, and it's rather sweet of him to reach for the gross flannel and actually wipe Nick down, and he thinks, _this is nice_ , and then he doesn't think anything at all.

****


End file.
